When I was in my early 20s, I dated a man named Gene. I suppose there were signs even early on that we wouldn’t last, he had never been to college, he was not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits. But he was so cute and sweet and lovable. It was on our second date that he made it clear he was wearing a hairpiece. I was surprised. I guess I was still at that tender age that assumes all men have hair- so when I started to run my fingers through his hair and he warned me, it was a shock. He wore a nice piece that was apparently glued on and prevented the public at large from knowing how significant his hair loss was.
He took me to meet his parents, and they were nice, accepting folk, genuine and honest and caring. After about four months, I decided we needed to break up. I'm afraid that none of my relationships at the time lasted much more than four months. I’m not very good at this transition thing so I invited him over and asked him to sit down. Before I got even two words out of my mouth I started to cry. It seems inherently unfair for the one delivering the bad news to cry first- but that is just the way I roll. So as soon as I started bawling he knew something was up. He made it easy; asked me if I was sure. He left after a hug.
When I was growing up I was aware that my gay uncle, my mother’s oldest brother, wore a piece on his head. I used to watch him in his bathroom get it from the Styrofoam globe and apply it to his own scalp. I thought it was a lot of work to go through. In retrospect I know how difficult it can be in the gay community. We judge each other so quickly and harshly.
I went to the barber this morning and he carefully trimmed all the edges around my ears and neck. He didn’t mention it today, God bless him, but I know he was looking down on my head from above. And it’s getting pretty thin up there.
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